


When the feast ends

by LaurelSilver



Series: Victimised [25]
Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Cannibalism, Descriptions of eating, Dismemberment, Existential Crisis, Gen, Gore, Oral Sex, Sexual Assault, Starvation, Vegan, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25330765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: "Who needs friends? We're eating/ But will they stick around when the feast ends?"J-Dog, Nightmare.Weird take; if humans are not animals, then cannibalism is vegan.
Relationships: n/a
Series: Victimised [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/910587
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9





	When the feast ends

**Author's Note:**

> NAMES ARE USEFUL:  
> Jorel; J-Dog  
> Victim; anyone you want it to be. The only requirements are that they have both arms and legs and most of their molars (back teeth). Gender doesn't matter, Victim is referred to as 'it'.  
> MENTIONED ONLY:  
> Matty; Da Kurlzz  
> Johnny; Johnny 3 Tears  
> Dylan; Funny Man  
> Danny; Danny  
> Charlie; Charlie
> 
> Just to be very clear;  
> 1\. I have not done, nor do I have any intention of doing, anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fiction.  
> 2\. I don't think Jorel or any of the rest of the band has done, or has any intention of doing, anything described in this fic.  
> 3\. I do not encourage or condone anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fic. Recreating this fic, or anything similar, is illegal and immoral and very fucked up.  
> 4\. You are not obliged to read, finish reading if you start, or comment/kudos if you finish. There is no story here. It just mindless violence for no real reason.  
> 5\. Victim having any similarities to anyone real or fictional is unintentional.
> 
> Reiterated warnings;  
> This fic contains cannibalism, as well as discussions of starvation and descriptions of eating.  
> This fic also contains sexual assault.

Jorel opened and closed the cupboards in turn, hoping some convenient snack-food would materialise there. Victim watched him, flinching at every escalating slam and bang.

The kitchen was small, with one worktop stretching from the corner, tucked in next to the stove, and out only a few feet. Underneath were two under-counter cupboards. The one by the stove was filled with pots and pans and jugs, with some more uncommon cooking items in the back, making you have to pull out every pot and pan and jug to reach them. Sometimes when Matty was clambering about for some instrument Jorel had never heard of, Jorel would think about Matty climbing into the oven in the same way, twisting his body to fit into the corner, legs going from splayed out to kicking across the lino to push him in further. He thought about closing the door and folding Matty’s dollar store tongs around the handles to keep him there, and whacking the heat right up. He thought about screams and bangs and the smell of burnt chicken.

The second, more accessible cupboard was what Matty called ‘ambient storage’ and everyone else called the food. The left was dry staples; pasta, rice, grains, legumes, flour, sugar and some instant coffee for sobering Johnny up. Spices sat on a tray in the top left, a mix of powders and leaves and sauces from a mix of markets and specialist shops and the dollar store. To the right was tinned food; tomatoes, veggies, fruit, condensed milk, coconut milk, soup for the lazier cooks. Jorel had picked each tin out in turn and studied the ingredient lists. All but one contained milk, and that one was beef and tomato. And yes, he’d checked, and it contained actual beef. And molluscs, for some reason.

Jorel groaned and slumped onto the countertop. To his right, the knife block sat, the meat grinder by its side, the pair holding two plastic chopping boards against the metal wall. Just past, plates and bowls were stacked up with mugs and glasses mobbed around them, with a large glass –that was possibly meant to be a vase- filled with cutlery. Bottles of liquor lined up against the wall, reaching the whole way from the knife block to the end of the countertop, a good two arm’s lengths. They loomed over Jorel as he pressed his head to the metal top, offering themselves to him.

Jorel drummed his hands on the countertop and pushed himself away to try the fridge yet again. He opened the door, and groaned again. The fridge wasn’t empty, but it was mostly beer. On the bottom shelf sat a six-inch lump of Victim’s left thigh wrapped in cling-film. In one veg drawer sat broccoli and sweet potatoes, both past their best but Jorel knew Matty could rescue them into some sort of curry or warm salad or stir-fry or whatever the fuck else he can pluck out of thin air. In the other fridge drawer sat some cans of a Polish cider Dylan had bought from a cheap market.

On the top shelf sat a wide-set bowl, cling-filmed and shoved in next to some bottled beer. Inside sat the remainder of Victim’s left thigh. Matty had chilled it in a specific corner where he reckons is the coldest until it partially froze, then sliced it impossibly thin and stir-fried it with a sticky, spicy sauce thickened with flour and a dark syrup he kept in a plain jar. Danny had nagged Matty for where he’d gotten the syrup from, and Matty just smiled and winked.

Jorel took the bowl down yet again, lifted the cling-film yet again and gave its contents a sniff yet again. It hadn’t changed in scent or appearance in the past ten minutes. It sat there, bright red and dense, the sauce staining the inside of bowl as Jorel swirled it. Or, at least, tried to swirl it; the meat stuck together and moved in one clotted lump.

Jorel replaced the bowl, yet again, and closed the fridge. He sighed and abandoned the kitchen to slump face-down over the sofa.

Victim’s stomach growled. The last thing it had eaten was itself, off a spoon Danny held out to it while making aeroplane noises. It had expected the meat to be chewy and hard, but it melted between its toothless gums and swallowed right down. It had been the first thing Victim had eaten in three days, and as much as it was sickened by the thought of cannibalism, the few spoonfuls hadn’t been enough.

Jorel’s head lifted to stare at Victim. Victim flinched, and stared at its remaining foot. Jorel’s face was thin and sunken with exhaustion, making his eyes dark, his skin pale and his eye-bags prominent. He stared across the warehouse, chin pressed into the arm of the sofa. His cap had fallen off his head and rolled somewhere next to him, and his hair stuck up in a little triangle at the front.

Victim twitched its foot idly. The concrete of the warehouse was not a comfortable place to sit, but between the missing left leg, the missing right arm and the chain around its neck, there wasn’t anywhere else for Victim to go.

Jorel rose, yet again, and took himself back to the kitchen, yet again. Victim watched him take the bowl out of the fridge, yet again. He peeled the film off completely, and tossed the thin plastic into the bin. He speared a piece of Victim’s thigh on a fork.

Jorel raised the piece to his mouth, opened up, and deposited the meat in. He chewed deliberately, his jaw working up and down slowly, his eyes scrunching with effort and disgust.

The flesh caressed his tongue. Matty was a decent cook, if Jorel was gun-to-the-head forced to compliment him. The flesh softened between Jorel’s teeth easily enough, and the spice flooded his mouth with warmth. The sauce clung to his lips, and Jorel’s tongue flicked out post-swallow to lap it up.

Jorel shuddered. He swore he could feel the lump moving down his gullet, sharp and heavy. It forced down into his stomach and sat itself there.

Jorel prodded at another piece, a string of ginger clinging to the morsel. Jorel rolled the string up the flesh and back down again, head buzzing. Or maybe it was the fridge buzzing and Jorel’s brain had just flat-lined in horror at himself.

Victim’s stomach growled again. Jorel looked up at it again, and Victim stared back. There was no way he could hear Victim’s stomach from the opposite corner of the warehouse. But Victim had no time to ponder Jorel’s hearing. He headed over, bowl in one hand and fork in the over.

“You hungry?” Jorel said.

Victim stared at him, not answering. ‘No’ meant starving. ‘Yes’ meant self-cannibalising.

Jorel sat himself in front of Victim, close enough to pull it into his lap. He speared a piece and held it up to Victim’s face. Victim whimpered at the morsel. Jorel inched the fork closer to it and it opened its mouth.

The food dropped into Victim’s emptied palate. Victim has to shake its head from side to side to chew its thigh.

Jorel prodded at another piece and held it up. He stared at it for several seconds, then held it out to Victim as it swallowed. His legs framed Victim, its remaining leg slung over his.

Victim chewed on. The sauce clung to the stub of its tongue.

Jorel gave himself a small bite. He chewed, deliberate as before, staring down Victim’s body at its stump of a thigh. The bone stuck out, the flesh and muscle peeled away in a ring, the remainder kept together with a tight rubber tourniquet. Victim had attempted to untie the tourniquet and let itself bleed out but the knot was just too tight to unfasten, especially one-handed. The end of the bone was jagged from the previous hacksaw removal, and a couple of splinters were clinging to the underside.

Jorel fed Victim another piece and watched it rock its head to chew. Its neck was starting to hurt.

“I don’t eat meat,” Jorel said.

Victim stopped chewing and stared at Jorel.

“Fuck, I’m vegan. I’m meant to be… what’s the fucking word – empathetic? Compassionate? I’m meant to be abolishing cruelty, not… not this!”

Jorel gestured vaguely to Victim. It stared at him, a piece of its own flesh sat between its gums where its molars were a month ago. Jorel had grinned as Dylan had prised each tooth out with a thick pair of pliers.

Jorel prodded at the meat. He turned a piece over and over with his fork, coating it thickly in the sauce. He lifted it to his face. “It wasn’t for the taste. It was for the animals. How can I save animals, but kill people? That makes no fucking sense.”

Victim stared at him. Before now, Jorel hadn’t said a word to it. He’d barely spoken at all, just sat and stared around at his co-torturers. He’d watched Matty as he cooked, but rejected the food. He’d watched Charlie as he fucked, but rejected a round himself. He’d watched Danny, Dylan, Johnny torment and beat and dismember Victim, but rejected any invitation to help.

Jorel held the piece out to Victim and Victim took it, and chewed it with its previous piece. It had a hard time rejecting its torturers. They weren’t prone to listening to its animalistic screams. Or rather, they were prone to enjoying its animalistic screams.

“Y’know, it’s calculated that for every day you eat vegan, you save one animal. I’ve got no fucking idea how that calculated. It’s not like you go “Yeah, I’mma be vegan now” and a slaughter pig teleports to a sanctuary. It’s a progression. As the demand drops, less animals are over-bred. I think. I watched, like, documentaries and shit on this, but it was kinda hard to follow. I ain’t some scientist like that.”

Victim swallowed and dropped its jaw for another. Fuck morality, it was hungry.

Jorel had speared another piece and was staring at it, cross-eyed. The sauce was dripping slowly down the fork. “In the long run, even just the occasional vegan meal adds up to save more animals than not bothering at all. That’s obvious, that makes sense. So, the guys eating you,” Jorel pointed the fork at Victim, “Is vegan, because they’re not eating animal products.”

Victim leant forwards and seized the flesh. It pulled back and chewed.

Jorel blinked at it. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

Victim didn’t notice. It slung its head about, chewing, its stomach growling with the joy of being filled.

“I fucking hate this. I **hate** this!”

Jorel tossed the bowl at Victim and stormed to his feet. Victim flinched away from him, but as he stormed away it pulled itself back together, seized a handful of the stir-fried meat and stuffed it into its mouth.

Victim dry heaved as it over-stuffed its mouth, and let a couple of pieces drop from its jaw. They fell onto its stomach and stuck there, sauce thinned with spittle. It rocked its head to chew, the food churning, its cheeks hamster-stuffed. The sauce swelled and dribbled over its lips. Victim’s eyes closed, and it had never been more grateful for a mouthful of food.

Jorel was watching it, lip curled in disgust. Red clung to his teeth, even after just two bites.

“That’s you, you know,” he said, “You’re eating your own flesh.”

Victim moaned and stuffed in another handful.

“That’s fucking disgusting. You’re fucking disgusting.”

Victim swallowed, a little too early, and it choked. It heaved forwards, flesh and sauce flying from its mouth. It groaned.

Jorel was on it, his hand in its hair and it dragged its face down to the spat flesh. Victim whined, smacking at him with its remaining hand.

“You know something else,” Jorel said, and dragged Victim up to face him, “I might not understand the logistics, but I do know for every day I hold one of you bitches here, it’s another day you don’t eat meat, and it’s another animal saved. So that’s a bonus.”

Victim whined, the hand tugging its hair tight and painful.

“You wanna eat? Eat, bitch. Don’t waste it.”

Jorel shoved Victim’s face down again, until its mouth was held over a dropped piece of flesh. It wrapped its lips around the meat and Jorel let it up to suck it into its mouth and chew. It reached for another piece, and Jorel smacked its arm.

“You eat with your mouth, dumbfuck,” Jorel said.

Victim reached out again. Jorel shoved it away and rose, heading off for the kitchen. Victim flailed and gathered itself up another handful.

Jorel threw the right-side cupboard open and searched through. The pots were, for the most part, well-stacked, Matty fussing to get the larger, heavier pots on the bottom and the smaller, more delicate ones safely on top. As far as Jorel was concerned, a pot was a pot was a pot. If you weren’t smoking it, it wasn’t worth worrying about. He pulled a small stack of oven dishes out of the way and found what he wanted pressed into the back wall.

Jorel pulled the tool out and tossed it from hand to hand, testing the weight. It was metal, with a long handle and a heavy head. The head was rectangular, with each end boasting small pyramid spikes. Jorel spun it in his hand, surveying the spikes and deciding them good enough. The label “Whack It Good; Kitchen Protein Hammer” was still clinging to the handle with its barcode, so it hadn’t even been used yet. The vegan had called first dibs on using the meat tenderiser.

Victim had been paying zero attention to Jorel. It crammed the food into its mouth, terrified of being left to starve for another three days. It swallowed hard, another mouthful waiting in its hand.

Jorel leered over it. He kicked the food out of its hand. Victim whined and followed the food down. It sprawled in front of Jorel and tried to rescue the handful. Jorel raised the tenderiser and brought it down on Victim’s side.

The pain was sudden but dull. Victim flinched and curled in on itself. Jorel swung down, hitting Victim on the hip. The little spikes left little punctures that took several seconds to swell with blood.

Jorel tutted. He dragged Victim upright by its hair as it groaned. The sauce was clinging to its face, from the tip of its nose and down in a messy teardrop to its chin with a few smears reaching up its jaw. A tiny piece of half-chewed flesh was trying to cling to the corner of Victim’s mouth but fell away. Its hand clung to Jorel’s wrist, the thick red smearing over his skin.

Jorel struck Victim on the side again. Victim tried to flail again, grinding its head into Jorel’s other hand, its hair twisting and pulling in his grip. It flailed back, straight into another hit to the hip.

Victim’s stump kicked out. The bone piece caught Jorel’s ankle and pulled straight away as Victim continued to struggle.

Jorel pressed his foot over the stump and ground down as he continued to hit down at Victim’s ribs and stomach. Victim’s arm floated next to it, up and down. Maybe it was hoping to catch the hammer. Maybe it was hoping to smack it away. Maybe it was pure stupid instinct and Victim no longer had any clue what it was doing.

The hammer hit higher than intended, and Jorel’s stomach and back twinged as he twisted to follow the motion through. He stumbled away from Victim, hammer still swinging about with a metal mind of its own. Blood flicked from the hammer head onto Jorel’s other arm and pre-bloodstained clothes.

Victim screamed. Its arm curled into itself far too tight, its fingers reaching inwards and down towards the break. It ghosted a finger over its skin, and its own touch burned. Just below, as Victim lowered its head to check, was caved in on an angle, the lower half of the humerus twisted forwards at this tight angle. Victim tried to straighten its forearm out and screamed again as the pain bit and shot up to its shoulder.

Jorel was back over it in seconds. He seized Victim’s wrist and pulled forwards.

Victim’s fingers curled and flexed in his grip. The forearm pulled after him. The break twisted, the elbow unresponsive to Victim’s pained and panicked whimpers. The bone tugged all wrong, the joint pulling with the elbow, the break gouging back into Victim’s muscles. The pain flared, needles puncturing the skin from the wrong side. The pain clawed there, trying to dig its way out.

Jorel dropped the hammer and pressed his hand to the break. The skin and bone shifted in his grip as he curled his fingers around the limb. He flexed and re-curled his fingers in a lazy rolling trill, grinning as the pain layered up. Victim grimaced back, tears clinging to its cheeks.

Jorel’s grip tightened and shoved down. Victim’s jaw dropped and a squeak of a scream escaped. The pain tore as Victim’s muscles strained to stretch that far. Jorel let go and Victim’s bone stabbed back up towards its other half.

Victim pulled and screamed again. Every movement of its hand and wrist had a little kick in its arm, a little stop in the break just to hurt Victim again. It tried to freeze but its brain was lost in panic and it kept trying to find an angle that would stop its arm from hurting.

Jorel let go and Victim’s arm dropped into its lap. It cried openly, streaming from the eyes and nose. Jorel sat back, hand over the hammer again, looking it up and down with an idle smirk dug into his face. The hammer sat on the floor, pooling blood and waiting to be swung again.

Victim’s arm twitched. It mentally begged itself to sit still, to give itself over to numbness. Its fingers perched on the tourniquet on its stump, and were soon joined by Jorel’s gaze.

The hammer dragged on the floor and dropped with a clatter as Jorel’s hands closed on the tourniquet. His fingers dragged along it, trying to just tear it away. Victim yelped as it was dragged onto its back, its arm flung out, as Jorel yanked at the rubber. The rubber held fast and Jorel worried at the knot, holding Victim’s stump up in the air. The other leg scraped over the concrete at random, torn between curling in to cover itself and pressing out to lift its hips into Jorel’s pull.

The tourniquet unravelled and Victim fell, its tailbone hitting the concrete and ringing from the two-inch drop. The boxy numbness that had sat in its stump flared into a burn, and Victim swore it could feel the wound re-moisten.

Jorel ran a finger over the bruise left by the tourniquet. His hand flattened on Victim’s thigh, a soft caress, his thumb running back and forth in a mockery of comfort. His hand crept lower, until his thumb was rolling over the cliff of Victim’s dismemberment. It dipped lower again and Jorel’s thumb stubbed against Victim’s protruding bone.

Jorel’s hand pulled away and took up the meat hammer again. He spun it in his hand a few times, flicking blood in a broad circle along the floor and up the wall. His head was hung low and it made his breath into ragged pants.

The hammer swung across. The spikes dug into the side of Victim’s thigh. The flesh and muscle squelched and buckled under the blow. Blood splattered over the concrete as the wound bled yet again, thick and fast.

Victim screamed, buckling over in some vain attempt to – what? Kiss its leg better? Scream its blood back into its body? The pain spasmed and gushed in its thigh, hot and pulsing.

Jorel stared. The pressed skin had reddened straight up with a shallow pattern of punctures. Jorel was reminded of overripe fruit as he dragged two curious fingers over the flesh, feeling the way it buckled and pulled too easy, too tender, the way the red juice squeezed out and dribbled under his fingertips.

Blood pumped between his legs and began to pool beneath them both. Jorel’s touch continued to pull down to the tourniquet-bruise. The skin shifted even easier, and Jorel traced along the jagged cut as it gushed.

Victim cried, its remaining hand scrabbling over the inside of its thigh. Every time it touched itself, the pain shot through its thigh and out with the blood and Victim would have to snatch its hand away only to try to reach out again, torn between avoiding pain and holding itself together.

The hammer clattered on the concrete. Jorel shifted. His hands pressed onto Victim’s thighs. Blood squelched underneath him as he moved.

Jorel’s head dipped down as he laid himself over the concrete. The blood soaked into the front of his pre-stained shirt. His mouth pressed into the inside of the uncut thigh in a soft kiss and trailed up.

Victim jabbered and shoved at Jorel’s head, sending a flash of pain up its arm. He pulled back, seized the hand tight and pressed back in, penalising Victim with a series of firm nips to the inner thigh, biting harder as he moved to nuzzle up into Victim’s crotch. Victim’s hand flexed in Jorel’s, their fingers interlaced.

Jorel’s tongue dipped out and licked up Victim’s parts, soft and warm. Victim whined, or moaned, or whimpered, it was hard to tell without its teeth and tongue. Its legs flexed and pressed in around Jorel’s head, trying to close, trying to protect itself.

Victim whined again as its body responded to the gentle licks and kisses. The pleasure tingled feather-light, a fairy touch between the crushed arm and ribs and the gushing leg. The feelings swam against each other, and Victim’s head was becoming light and airy.

Jorel nuzzled against Victim’s crotch one more time and then continued his trail along Victim’s thighs, nipping and kissing gently down to the stump. The pain grew as the pleasure faded into a frustrated half-arousal. Jorel’s teeth sent sharp spikes into Victim’s skin, deeper and clearer until he reached the wound.

Jorel paused, staring down at the dense liquid, a starved animal staring at a truck-crushed bunny. He dipped his nose to the wound and pulled away, and again, and again, and yet a-fucking-gain. He was hungry for blood but his conflictions were still clawing at the last of his conscience.

Victim sighed. It didn’t know it could bleed so much. Numbness was setting into its side, ribs surely cracked, lungs surely bruised and broken open. It hurt to breathe, but it was in too much pain already to even notice.

Jorel’s jaw opened, and his lower mandible tucked under the dismemberment. He bit, slow and cautious, blood flooding his mouth and overflowing straight out. His top teeth sunk into flesh, too blunt and weak to break the thick skin, and his lower jaw tightened in. Victim’s torn muscles shifted and twisted against the teeth, too thickly packed against the bone to move out of the way, and the stringy fibres clung to Jorel’s teeth and tongue as his jaw tried to close.

Victim howled. The burn twisted and knotted there, where it had been numb and useless for the past two days. The pain clawed at its skin as Jorel worked his jaw, chewing and forcing his teeth in.

The very edge of the skin was almost crispy, partly scabbed over. Beyond that, it was thick and dense, the flesh giving slowly against Jorel’s teeth. The blood was hot and metallic, and Jorel choked on it.

Jorel pulled away. The red clung to his face, splattered up over his eyes and forehead. It coated his lips, chin, jaw and neck, and dripped down to soak into his shirt, his heavy grey chest tattoo streaked in the red. His eyes were dilated and distant, maybe satiated, maybe disassociating, maybe a trick of the light. Maybe a trick of Victim’s light head.

Victim sighed again and sank looser into the concrete, its muscles relaxing into numbness as it surrendered itself to death. Jorel sat for what felt like hours, until the blood had dried to his skin and clothes and the metal taste in his mouth became sour as fresh vomit.

* * *

Jorel woke up to an empty warehouse. Victim’s body was gone, the blood mopped up to leave only a dark stain on the concrete. Jorel wondered how long it would take them to dye the whole warehouse that rusty red.

He sat up. Someone had laid a blanket over him and tucked a pillow under his head, some garish knitted pair from a thrift store. He couldn’t see it but an attempt had been made to wipe the blood off his face, given up as the gummy dried stuff had barely even smeared and Jorel had groaned and snorted in his sleep.

He hadn’t seen or heard them, but a panic had ensued as the door opened and five men had stood over him, checking him for breath and a heartbeat as they took in the amount of blood down his face and nose. Fingers had ghosted over his lips, pressed to his veins, flicked his hair out of his face. Prayers were mumbled. Relief was sighed as his heartbeat was confirmed, strong in his wrists.

It took several minutes for anyone to even look at Victim. Its death was confirmed with a couple of firm kicks. One grumbled about a waste of meat, but he only lasted a few seconds. There were more important things at hand.

Jorel sat up. He was on the rug by one of the sofas, and he couldn’t remember if he’d made it there himself. Two rolled blunts, a bottle of water and a packet of vegan cookies sat on the coffee table by his head.

Jorel lit up a blunt, tightly packed and still a little sticky. He sighed smoke, and it tasted of metal.

**Author's Note:**

> Weird take, I know.  
> One of the common anti-vegan arguments is that humans are superior to animals/top of the food chain. So by that logic, cannibalism is vegan because humans are not animal products.  
> Please don't start asking vegans for their takes on cannibalism being vegan. This is a whump fic, not an actual pro/anti vegan argument. Just a weird connection I made because I'm an edgelord. 
> 
> The molluscs in the beef soup is based on some mince we used to get in the kitchen I work in that was labelled as containing molluscs. We kept trying to find out why and how molluscs got into the mince, but never got an answer. The only explanations we could think of were 1.) cross-contamination (so the mince and molluscs were stored next to each other) but nothing else was labelled as containing molluscs: or 2.) the mince (which was only labelled "mince") was just minced up whatever, so contained a mix of meats and molluscs.  
> Plastic cutting boards aren't actually recommended, as your knife will leave gouges in the plastic where germs can breed without you being able to see them. With wooden boards you can wipe and oil them, but that's some fancy bullshit we don't all have the time/energy/prissiness for. Glass boards are meant to be the most hygienic but they're expensive and easy to drop and smash. With a plastic board, wash them well after use, rinse them with hot water before use, and use food-safe sanitiser as liberally as you can afford. For the love of all things tasty, don't cut directly on your countertop (you can still leave gouges that will still fill with germs) or into your hand (you can cut yourself and that's not ideal either).  
> Lifehack for when you don't have much money; international supermarkets are your friend. Spices, large jars of pickled veg/alliums, cheap alcohol, snacks and chocolate, loose fruit and veggies, some stores even have their own bakery. If you have a food allergy/diet restrictions and want to double-check ingredient lists you can't read, ask a member of staff. (Remember to be respectful, not just towards the staff but in general. A girl I went with once kept going "EWW WHAT IS THAT ITS SO WEIRD" and then got very offended when she was asked to leave. Don't do that shit. It's rude.)  
>   
> The 'one animal a day' statistic is a bit of a simplification. Like mentioned above, the animals aren't just teleported to a sanctuary, its an ongoing equivalency. As demand for animal products decreases (or increases slower), less animals are bred to produce said products, less land is destroyed to keep the animals and grow crops to feed them, less water is redirected for a smaller amount of animals, less methane/CO2 is released by the animals.  
> Or so the theory goes. I would argue that the animal not being bred due to less demand isn't saving animals currently in factory farms, slaughterhouses, etc. Nor do I think that demand is actually going to drastically decrease enough to shut down any of said factory farms, and if it does I don't think the animals would be taken to a sanctuary or anything like that.  
> Basically, the vegan movement, even from animal rescuing or environmental perspectives, has its flaws, but so does completely dismissing veganism. There is no ethical consumption under capitalism.  
> For a conclusion; it's a personal choice. Use canvas bags, buy as local as you can, buy without plastic if you can, and recycle. 
> 
> With all that being said, get up and stretch for a few minutes. Its good for your joints, its good for your muscles, and its good for your eyes and your brain to look away from the screen for a few minutes.


End file.
